Cradle me in your arms
and feed me your secrets
like every one is a little aeroplane.
I’ll take some bites with a pinch of salt
and others like a fine Chinese delicacy
(that will probably taste like feet).
Cut me a slice of silence:
frosted and gilded like a wedding cake
– but of course, I’ve never been much of a fan
of wedding cake.
What I’d really like, you see,
is the tenderloin,
the finest cut you have,
so I can palate
everything your lips have tasted
and every time your body’s wept
and every tinge of pink scar-tissue
that your carving-knife has left behind.
So cut me a steak, or two, or three:
expose your bones
so I can taste the secrets
you will take to your grave.